


Holes and happiness

by saderaladon



Category: Marilyn Manson (Band)
Genre: Anal Sex, Dubious Consent, M/M, Misunderstandings, Oral Sex, Threesome - M/M/M, Unsafe Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-06
Updated: 2020-04-06
Packaged: 2021-03-01 22:39:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,568
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23514790
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/saderaladon/pseuds/saderaladon
Summary: "And this isn't what I am asking here," Tim continues. "I am asking — where and when?"
Relationships: Ginger Fish/Marilyn Manson/Tim Skold
Comments: 4
Kudos: 7





	Holes and happiness

**Author's Note:**

  * A translation of [Holes and happiness](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/579454) by LunniLost & me. 



> Hello.  
> Check out the throat on this fucker: https://imgur.com/mg4hPxW
> 
> Right?
> 
> So my spiritual brother and I have a lot of feelings about the Putting Holes in Happiness video, and they were expressed by us through conjoined writing, and now the resulting story has finally been translated by me. 
> 
> Enjoy.
> 
> Another song from that album might be relevant here too, because it is very much a happy-rape here, so beware.
> 
> English is not my native language, and this doesn't seem like my best translation to me either, so please do notify me if you find some fuck ups.

***

"Hey, what do you think of throats?" Tim asks, sliding down the back seat of a taxi, the tilt to his head towards Manson measuring at precisely thirty three degrees.

They, as it was stated, are in a taxi. They are sitting in a taxi in a giant traffic jam. They're tired to the bones and both their faces aren't exactly clean. Tim has something white on his eyelashes and something red in the corners of his mouth, as if he's bitten off some poor soul's head. Manson's eyelashes are stained with something black. The rest of Manson's face is stained with fuck knows what.

They are going further and further away from the stuffy set, but their destination is mysterious. It's a house of either one of them, they just haven't decided on whose house it is yet. Their houses are in the same part of town. Probably.

They're fucking tired to the bones.

"Throats as something separate?" Manson inquires.

Manson is thinking about that poor soul Tim might have orally decapitated.

"Whatever floats your boat," Tim grants him license and adds twenty seven degrees to the angling of his head, reaching a third of the semicircle. "But what I mean here is - have you fucking seen his throat?"

"Hm. Whose throat are you so passionately talking about?"

So passionately that Manson thinks he might actually drown in Tim's saliva.

"Your fucking drummer's throat," Tim explains, his mouth inundated.

Manson frowns, wrinkling his forehead that is stained with fuck knows what. Apparently trying to remember how his fucking drummer even looks.

Soon he realizes, that he hasn't ever paid attention to his throat, just like he hasn't paid any attention to anything else of his, but also he sees where Tim's train is going.

So that is exactly what he says.

"I haven't paid much attention to it. But wait, are you saying we should fuck him?"

"Yeah, I fucking am," Tim says. "Was it really so hard to understand?"

It wasn't.

"Well, if you think about how long he and I've known each other and consider that he is a part of my personal universe, then it is surprising that it hasn't happened yet, because the world works in such a way... I mean, my world works in such a way, that music and sex go hand in hand together, so—"

Manson doesn't get to finish his sentence, because Tim cuts him short. But he also wanted to add that it is an oversight that definitely needs correction.

However...

"Fucking shut up already," Tim barks at him. "Why do you always need some long winded new age explanation to back up your actions?"

it's not like Manson can't manipulate people as it is.

"And this isn't what I am asking here," Tim continues. "I am asking - where and when?"

Manson fills with delight at such audacity.

Manson laughs out loud.

"God, and the question how is, of course, of no interest to you," he says, unable to give no comments statement.

"And what, must it be of interest?" Tim asks. "Is that a precept?"

"Right, you didn't bother with such minor details when you came after me either," Manson says contemplatively.

Tim doesn't bother with the poison on the arrowhead.

"So? Why don't you quit talking then and give me an answer?"

"Alright," Manson concedes. "How about at mine?"

"Right now!" Tim interrupts him.

"Tim, he has already left," Manson retorts.

Not that this is in any way enough to stop or deter the Tim Skold hurricane.

"Let the man rest," Manson adds.

As if a pleasant evening in a warm — _very_ warm — company of good old friends is slaving away by the sweat of your brow.

"Yeah, okay," Tim drags, ceasing the attack. "Then first thing tomorrow. Call him in. Demonstrate your power and authority. It might have an effect on him."

Then Manson expresses his will with a nod, as if he wears an olive branch around his forehead, and they spend close to an hour being stuck in a traffic jam in silence, because they are fucking tired to the bones.

This silence, though, doesn't only mean they are exhausted. There is anticipation that's audible in it.

***

Ginger is completely unsuspecting of such elaborate plots being organized around his future fate.

Ginger wakes up ten minutes before his alarm clock goes off, but gets out of bed only twenty minutes after it does. Ginger brushes his teeth and doesn't comb his hair, he drinks cucumber juice, sitting in the kitchen in his underwear, and then stands on the yoga mat, again in his underwear, having decided that some physical activity that is not connected to percussion isn't a bad idea. He sorts his socks for a while and finally finds a new dark blue pair, and puts it on. He doesn't iron the shirt he chooses.

Ginger drives to Manson's home studio to take part in physical activity that is very much connected to percussion, because his phone told him to travel in exactly this direction and the speaker used quite an authoritarian tone of voice.

Ginger misses a turn somewhere close to Manson's house and makes a huge detour, trying to get back on track and reach the stopping place.

The door opens, and it is Tim who opens it, which is a bit unexpected, because Ginger was driving to _Manson's_ home studio. Manson himself is sitting on the couch, wearing black silk pajamas with an embroidered pattern done in gold and a dressing gown that is hanging off his shoulders and looks like it is several sizes too big for him. Tim leads Ginger to the kitchen and opens the fridge in there. And gives him a bottle of beer. He then opens it as well, when they come back into the room, Tim opens the bottle and puts the swiss knife into the pocket of his tapered sweatpants that are tied around the ankles.

"Hm, you know, I was sure you open beer bottles with your eye," Manson says, addressing Tim. "At least in appropriate situations. Like the one we have in here."

Tim snorts.

Ginger sits down on the very edge of the chair and takes a sip of the beer Tim's handed over to him.  
"So, as I was saying," Masons starts speaking again, again addressing Tim. "This proves tha—"

"It proves nothing, apart from the fact that this guy is not right in the head," Tim cuts him short. "So if tomorrow they declare martial law, I won't even be surprised."

"You won't be surprised if tomorrow they declare you the president of the whole planet," Manson waves him away. "This is like your sweetest dream."

"Hell, no," Tim objects. "I'm too lazy for this shit, but okay, I won't be surprised. I won't have any time for that. I'll be very busy trying to find a rocket to fuck off from this planet as soon as possible."

"No, you've no choice here. You're the sole ruler of the world, and all the rockets have been destroyed because of the disarmament program you yourself approved," Manson insists. "What are you gonna do then?"

"I'll tell you to fuck off," Tim says. "I don't need any rockets for that. And by the way, neither do I need them right now. So fuck off."

Tim finishes his beer and puts the empty bottle on the table, next to another one that has been sitting there from the very beginning.

Ginger shifts on the edge of the chair and clears his throat.

"Are we going to the studio now?" he asks.

"No, why?" Tim glances at him. "I mean, nobody is in any hurry, right?"

Ginger shakes his head.

Tim leans on the table with empty beer bottles sitting on it. Manson straightens the sleeves of his dressing gown and taps his fingers on the armrest of the couch.

"Okay, alright, maybe you aren't wrong," he says, turning his head to look at Tim leaning on the table. "But what if there weren't any people from the start and you were just a monkey that fell asleep on the palm tree?"

"Why would I be the monkey, it's more up your alley," Tim leaves his post next to the table and starts sailing around the room. "And how do you even imagine a monkey sleeping on a fucking palm tree? Unless it fell off it and got a severe concussion and suffered from hearing voices in its head—"

"That were saying that it is now the president of the world, exactly," Manson interrupts him, following his route with lazy eyes. "You know, it's like with that guy, do you remember?"

"God, nooo," Tim says, dragging the vowel, stopping in his tracks and putting a hand over his forehead.

"You don't?" Manson sees this gesture his own way. "You know, that guy who wore a popcorn package as his hat and said that the true Bible is sent down to us through lipstick stains on mirrors in public toilets or something."

Ginger shifts in his chair again and also straightens the sleeves of his shirt. Then he gets distracted by the label on the bottle of beer that he's holding in his lap and misses a part of the conversation that he doesn't understand anyway.

"So," Manson informs Tim, who is now standing in the middle of the room, arms crossed on his chest. "He told me that he needed to take a leak, and I asked him why the fuck he was telling me all that, and—"

"I wanna ask you too," Tim cuts him off. "Why the fuck are you telling me all that? I've fucking heard it like fifty times already."

Manson sighs.

"Alright," he says and smoothes down his hair.

"Did you want to change something in the record?" Ginger asks, putting the bottle on the floor. "Something in the fifth track?"

Manson glances at him and frowns.

"Ah, no," he shrugs. "Just. Wanted to look at some things again. But this isn't urgent. Do you want another one?" He points at the beer bottle on the floor. "Tim, bring him a bottle."

Ginger puts the second bottle that Tim brings him and that is full of beer on the floor next to the first one.

"By the way," Tim starts, sitting down on the armrest of another chair. "Have you figured out that... God, what was it that you couldn't shut up about? Clothes pins?"

"Clothes pins?" Manson repeats his question with disdain.

"Fuck," Tim says impatiently. "That fucking nonsense about atoms in human bodies."

"Ah," Manson nods. "I guess, he's just crazy. All of you are. Aryan fans of organic farming and universal healthcare. Don't know. Doesn't matter. I mean, who even wants to think about this?"

Tim snorts with disdain.

"You, for example," he offers. "Maybe, instead of reading brain vomit of mentally challenged alternative thinkers and digesting it again in your not exactly sane mind only to spew it out on everybody who never asked for it you should consider shutting up from time to time? Fucking Socrates."

"Go fuck yourself," Manson refuses to stop the broadcast. "My brain is fine. Millions of apes don't matter on the scale of the universe. I'm only interested in monkeys who don't jump off a cliff like everybody else right into the pants of good catholics and model citizens."

"As you wish," Tim pulls on a conciliatory face. "Grand master of the marmosets."

Ginger honestly tries to understand the main point of the hot debate he is observing, but fails in that despite all his efforts, seeing no connection between monkeys, clothes pins and monkeys again. He's about to remind them of the studio one more time, because he sees an obvious connection between it and percussive instruments, when the speakers move to another pressing topic, cutting him short, and the topic they explore is wardrobe choices.

"Speaking of pants," Manson goes on. "You know, if fashion police actually existed, you'd be stripped naked right away. What were you thinking when you put these on?" He gestures at Tim's sweatpants. "What were you thinking when you entered my house wearing these?"

Tim looks down, studying the item of clothing that displeased the emperor, lingering on the ties around the ankles.

Then he shrugs.

"I don't deliberate about fucking textile much," he reports without even a hint of irritation. "But if something rubs you the wrong way, feel free to make your trendy offers. You might reform this hardened criminal. Receive a golden medal for your exhausting labour."

Then Manson snarls out that policemen don't receive golden medals, they get promoted, and Tim snarls that police scum - _policemen_ , he repeats after Manson, quirking his lips - get Molotov cocktails in the face, and both of them stand up and set off to adorn Tim with some eyeshadow, because this is what Manson offers. Ginger doesn't understand what was so insulting about Tim's style, in his opinion Tim looks fine.

Tim looks fine when Manson stops painting his eyes or, rather, only one of them, because in the middle of the process Tim starts wriggling and tells Manson a story about police and Molotovs, getting really excited, and Manson gets excited too, while Ginger just keeps shifting, sitting in the chair next to two full bottles of beer. He studies the bickering sparring partners with worry on his face, because, well, it is actually funny, but didn't somebody have an urgent job for him, and if it goes on like this this job won't even get started, and usually it is a good idea not only to start doing an urgent job, but also to finish it, and if possible on time.

An hour later Ginger finally gets behind the drum kit, but his worries don't subside, because he is asked to produce some seriously alien rhythms, which Manson comes up with, covering his eyes with his palm and getting lost in thought from time to time, while Tim is standing next to him, leaning on the wall and drinking his third and then his fourth bottle of beer. Ginger doesn't know why it was such an emergency to sit here, playing lines from tracks they recorded god knows how many years ago and never even include in concert sets. Maybe, Manson decided to include them after all or something like it, or maybe he is asking him to play them for Tim, because Tim hasn't heard them, but then there're tapes and they are probably more accurate, because Ginger isn't sure he remembers everything correctly, but nobody says anything to him about that, so he just keeps doing what he was told to do.

Then Tim leaves — _I'm gonna go take a leak_ , he says — and Ginger keeps producing bizarre rhythms, and now they aren't even extraterrestrial anymore, now they are outright otherwordly, but he keeps doing what he was told to do nevertheless, deciding to trust his colleague. Manson was once a drummer too, wasn't he. A little later Tim appears behind Ginger's back and Tim's hands appear on Ginger's shoulders, which is a big surprise for him, because according to his inner clock time couldn't have been measured in principle after Tim'd left, his inner clock is malfunctioning, and the illusive rhythms from the underworld are to blame.

In reality, time was flying as usual after Tim'd left, and apart from that some other very interesting things were also going on.

For example, first Tim came back. Upon his arrival he diverted Manson's attention from Ginger's rhythms of the kingdom come to Ginger himself, pointing a finger at him behind his back with an interrogatory show of teeth, asking Manson if he could start with the project all three of them are here for. Manson pulled on a face, while Ginger's attention was consumed by the cymbals. The face meant that Tim of course could start, that he not only could, but _had to_ start immediately, that Manson is already sick of challenging Ginger's drumming talents, because if Manson was a drummer once, that was once upon a time. Then Tim, who hadn't yet approved any disarmament programs, went on the offensive.

Ginger, however, doesn't see the threat coming until it is too late to run.

"Let me help you with that tension," Tim says behind Ginger's back and puts his hands on Ginger's shoulders, starting to rub them expertly, without stopping to ask if Ginger even felt any tension.

If Ginger didn't feel any tension before, now he definitely does, so Tim's supposedly therapeutic ministrations achieve results that are in opposition to his stated intentions.

Ten seconds later Ginger's tension that he feels with his whole body now - and especially so with his shoulders that Tim keeps manhandling - grows even stronger, because Manson embarks on a journey of his own and sails towards him too. And puts his hand on his throat.

If Manson sails, Ginger flees or, at least, that's what he attempts to do, because he fails. Because it is too late to run away. Because Tim simply nails him to the chair, pressing on his shoulders.

"Sit still," he says, adding verbal emphasis to the push and expressing his vexation.

What he is offering is nothing _bad._

The tension that is spreading across Ginger's shoulders keeps growing, and he feels as if he is sitting not behind a drum kit, but on an electric chair, so when Manson starts voicing his worldview again, the charged particles make their move, abandoning their lodgings, and Ginger giggles like a complete idiot and feels like he's about to be executed even more because of that.

"Hm, you know, it seems you were right," Manson says to Tim, tone pensive, and Ginger lets out several nervous chuckles one after another.

"Ginger," Manson says to him.

"Ah?"

"Our good friend Tim Skold thinks that you have a remarkable throat," Manson informs him, and his hand is holding his throat, however remarkable it might be, while Tim's hands are squeezing his shoulders like a vice. "I'm really surprised I haven't noticed that before."

Then he starts educating the air around them, filling the broadcast with his lengthy ruminations.

"There is a certain benefit to creative unions," he claims. "You've always been around and your throat's also always been so... worthy of study. But I haven't noticed it before. It was your other traits that had value in my eyes. If we're talking about physical appearance, I only had to pay attention to how you'd look on the screen. Not that I needed to pay a lot of it anyway. You're a drummer. You aren't shown on screen often."

Tim chuckles, and his chuckle sounds rather nasty.

Ginger feels similarly lousy. He got preoccupied with his own mental meditation at the very beginning of Manson's speech and now he is wondering if they'll make him play truth or dare or put his hand in a box with a hole in it and touch multipeds and rotten eggs, he is thinking that if they will, then how can he get out of this situation without making a fool of himself, because, it seems, this is exactly what they are about to make him into and he wasn't called in here to play the drums, he was called in here to be the butt of their cruel adolescent practical jokes.

"Nevertheless," Manson goes on. "Speaking of creative unions. Yesterday our good friend Tim Skold pointed out your throat to me, giving me an opportunity to take a fresh look at it. And you know, it really does deserve some consideration."

He tightens his grip on Ginger's throat a little.

"What I am trying to say," Manson continues. "Is that for me the change of the paradigm has always opened doors for the new sources of inspiration. For example, when I was thinking about the concept of the last albu—"

"We are not your teenage fucking fans to listen about the concepts of your fucking albums," Tim cuts him short. "We're in your fucking band."

At this moment Ginger gets as close as he's ever been to actually feeling sorry about being in Manson's band, but in the end he doesn't, because, generally speaking, he likes being in Manson's band and through that a part of something really important.

Also he doesn't get all the way there because Tim speaks again.

"By the way, Ginger," Tim says, and the change of the subject he is executing feels pretty natural to him, since in his mind show business and promiscuity are closely tied together. "I hope you don't have anything against people who participate in friendly bisexual orgies?"

Ginger doesn't have the time to offer any reaction to Tim's words, Tim lighting up a cigarette right away, Manson hastily offering his reaction to such behavior of his.

"Fuck, Tim," he says, indignant. "Isn't it enough that I have to put up with you poisoning _me_? Why the hell are you polluting my studio with your foul smoke?"

Tim pulls on a repentant face, simulating feelings of remorse, which Ginger doesn't see, and shows Manson his palms, finally removing them from Ginger's paralyzed shoulders, which Ginger notices instantly, and walks out of the studio as if he's leaving the stage.

"Don't dive too deep in your goddamn philosophy in here," he says at the doorstep, giving unwarranted advice.

Manson doesn't even think about diving anywhere. He simply towers over Ginger, taking a step back and freeing Ginger's throat off his hand as well, and looks at him poignantly, and his whole form eloquently expresses some impatience.

"So what?" he asks several long seconds later, because it is not just Ginger's shoulders that are incapacitated.

"Ah?" Ginger asks back.

"You don't harbour any... naive prejudice, do you?" Manson says, uttering the words carefully, as if Ginger is a dormant house-trained white sheep that got accidentally mixed up with a prodigal herd of ones covered in black paint head to hoof.

Ginger eases up on being a stone sculpture, unwinding a little, because it seems that there won't be any multipeds and rotten eggs and it just might be that his colleagues have forgotten about their April Fools' day jokes, and he even manages to understand what it is Manson's referring to.

"Of course I don't," he says honestly.

Manson smiles, content, practically beaming.

"Perfect. Then again, I expected nothing less of you. I mean, you're drumming for me, not for anybody else, and you're aware of my views. I've always said that a smart person's sexuality isn't limited by the narrow framework of puritan morality and proper conduct. Don't you agree?"

"I guess, yeah," Ginger says, a bit unsure, trying to be candid regardless.

"You don't need to guess, you know this," Manson says without even a hint of appreciation of his efforts. "Are you familiar with my personal list of rules?"

Ginger nods, because he is more than familiar with it by now, he was made to learn those rules by heart.

"I did it only to break all of them in the end," Manson starts explaining. "Every single one of them. But my main aspiration is to help other people break them too, to help people who can't do anything like that on their own. Do you understand what I mean?"

Ginger shrugs, moving his exhausted shoulders, and generates several uncertain sounds, trying to convey that he actually doesn't understand almost anything here, about as little as he did when Manson was still discussing clothes pins and popcorn packages with Tim.

"I want to liberate people," Manson helps him out. "To free them. All people. People who are a part of the inner circle and strangers too. You do agree that one simply must benefit as much as he can from following the signs he's shown?"

Ginger is about to accede just in case, because this interrogation leads him straight down that path that terminates at feeling sorry about his choice of occupation, just like the conference that happened earlier, the one he was a rather passive member of, even though his throat was the main topic, his throat that couldn't produce anything useful or, as a matter of fact, anything useless either, but he is again interrupted by Tim, who pokes his head into the studio.

"What are you still fucking doing here? Wasn't there enough chitchat? Come on, let's go already."

Manson turns his head towards him, stopping with the ethical enlightenment.

"And why should we go anywhere? I say, this spot is as good as any for our performance."

Tim snorts.

"Oh, so now this is also a show," he says, sarcastic. "Aren't you forgetting that such performances require props?"

Manson rolls his eyes.

"My memory is fine. And you, it seems, fail to remember that you were the one who put those props fuck knows where."

"I don't fucking fail to do anything," Tim says, gruff. "And it's not fuck knows where, it's I know where."

"Well, now I say it's needed here," Manson proclaims. "Feel free to go and find it in that sophisticated, highly rational mess you made out of my house."

Tim bows his head, overly theatrical, and disappears through the door, heading where he was ordered to.

  
Those props he's after are a mystery to Ginger, and he wonders what the hell they need from him now and what the hell they are attempting to achieve here, because there is no urgent job in sight and nobody is telling him to cackle like a chicken hanging out of the window, and even Manson's convoluted lectures seem to be over.

In reality, while he's brainstorming the last few hours, Manson starts another maneuver. But in the beginning it looks more like he's up to his old tricks again, because his hand finds its way onto Ginger's throat and seizes it. Then, though, he pulls his head up by his chin, which has, most likely, never happened, bends over and kisses him, which has definitely never happened.

Ginger is trying to figure out if that has anything to do with those signs and benefitting from following them Manson was giving a wordy sermon about, or if that is a rehearsal of the show he sent Tim to find props for, or if that is still some kind of a long-drawn, twisted joke, though, this last idea of his is probably wrong, because not everybody's present at the moment, whereas these types of pranks are usually played among large groups of people.

Then the missing member of their group of people joins them again, right when Manson lets go of him and stops shoving his tongue down his throat, and the recent absentee looks more like he has lost something instead of finding, because apart from those tapered pants with ties around the ankles that Manson deemed so offensive Tim is wearing no clothes whatsoever. He's even barefoot.

Ginger is about to ask Tim if he is going to be warm enough like that, because it is always freezing in Manson's house, but Tim gives him no such opportunity. He throws something — apparently, those mysterious _props_ — at Manson, says _keep an eye on it_ and walks straight towards Ginger, hoists him up and starts unbuttoning his shirt, moving from top to bottom with resolution, despite the above-mentioned near zero temperatures.

Ginger briefly thinks about the iron that he might have forgotten to turn off, but then realizes that he hasn't ironed his shirt today, and this isn't his only realization. Now he understands that he has missed a lot of things and that he has been invited here not for working or for being the butt of the joke or even the audience of philosophy lectures, he's been invited here to be a tool for the hosts to address the issue of puritan morality.

When Manson was asking him about the narrow framework of it Ginger, of course, also agreed that it needed to be widened, even if he did it without being so sure as Manson is, but he had absolutely no idea Manson's questions were so _personal_. Now he clearly sees that those inquiries that were aimed at him weren't as abstract and theoretical he thought them to be, be it inferences about breaking the rules or the friendly orgies quiz or remarks about his throat being so noteworthy.

It is exactly his throat that Tim is touching, having eliminated the obstacle of his shirt by pulling it off him, paying such persistent attention to it no other person, Manson included, has ever done in his entire life, and staring at him in a way that suggests Tim's spent the last five years or so dreaming of seeing him half-naked, even though that is as far from the truth as it can be and Tim has barely said five words to him during that time, and everything he did say was about work.

Manson puts his hands on Ginger too, first on his recently tortured shoulders, then on his shoulderblades and the small of his back, gradually sliding further down and following the motions with commentary, which is exactly his kind of thing, because in the years they've known each other Manson never failed to spend every single day saying as many words as a normal person produces in a month. Manson differs from a normal person not only through his excessive talkativeness, but just in general, in most regards, and as an example of that Ginger remembers those countless prostheses Manson on repeated occasions showed to him, while also sharing stories of each and every artificial limb with him.

But at this moment in time all those tales get entangled with each other in his mind, forming a hazy cloud of words, because four shameless hands are playing him like a piano and it feels surprisingly enjoyable, and impersonal compliments Manson pays to his back, talking about it not with him, but with Tim, also stir something inside him, and Tim's excited, grinning face, appearing now and then before his eyes, while Tim himself studies every centimeter of his throat, gives rise to pleasant feelings as well. A more rational part of his brain informs him that he should've run away from here, probably back when they were discussing monkeys and atoms in human bodies, but right now there is no escape for him, because four shameless hands are holding him pretty firmly, and the next phrase Manson utters makes the already quite desperate situation into a complete dead-end.

"Will you stop touching his goddamn throat for a second?" Manson says to Tim.

Tim just smirks in response, but does indeed leave Ginger's throat alone and starts unbuckling his belt. Ginger's blurry mind gives rise to a quick thought — he's wearing boxers with megalomaniacal cartoon mice who are always trying to conquer the world on them and he tries to tell of that to Tim to warn him and avoid shocking him way too much.

"Wait, I... I've got..." he says.

"You've got amazing ribs," Manson interjects, breathing the words into his ear.

At that exact moment Tim pulls both his pants and his boxers off simultaneously and then curses, looking up at Manson.

"Fuck, you, fussy squad leader. Why haven't you told me he was still wearing his fucking boots?"

With that Tim promptly falls on his knees and starts combatting Ginger's shoelaces.

Ginger wishes he could follow him and maybe even surpass him, breaking through the Earth's crust all the way down to the mantle or to the very core, because now Tim's excited face is poking around not near his neck, but right next to the body part the problematic boxers with insurgent rodents were covering, through that exciting Ginger himself, which scares him so much he almost faints, nearly executing that rapid fall he's just been dreaming about.

But Manson yet again comes to his rescue, holding him in place completely unceremoniously, though that doesn't help him much either, because the way Manson chooses to support him is through grabbing his butt.

And not just grabbing.

He makes an approbatory comment too.

"Oh, wow," Manson says, voice pensive. "It seems that sport does sometimes come in handy."

"What are you talking about?" Tim asks, voice irritated. He's trying to pull Ginger's left boot off him.

Ginger makes a barely audible sound, as if he's being strangled, but that, just as his throat up until this crazy, mental day, stays unnoticed.

"The ass on him is like a five star one," Manson informs Tim. "Even higher class than yours."

Tim snorts, pleased, but somewhat skeptical.

"Get right to it, if you like it so much," he says, getting up. "I don't mind."

 _Ginger's_ opinion on the issue is of no interest to anybody.

But truth to be told, Ginger himself realizes, not without a certain degree of compunction, that he has nothing similar to objections in his brain, it seems, there is nothing there in general, and also were he to try voicing his protests, if he had them, he would fail, he wouldn't be able to finish a single sentence, he'd only be moaning incoherently, just like he's doing right now.

Tim's generous offers, though, contradict his actions. He gets up on his feet and then immediately kneels again and drags Ginger's comatose body along, while Manson pulls off his silky robe and sits backwards in the chair at the drum kit.

Ginger's back touches the cold floor of the studio Tim is pressing him into, putting both his legs onto his shoulder as a bonus, and Tim's shoulder, unlike the floor, is warm. The lube he also warms up a bit, rubbing it between his fingers. The lube he, it turns out, went out to retrieve. The lube Manson threw back at him, taking his seat.

Tim's fingers, even more shameless than his hands, reach their intended target, and Ginger shudders, going bright red. If there's any intact area left on his face for that, because he's felt the hot influx of blood rushing to his skin before — when Tim's face was in close proximity to his excited cock.

"Fuck," he says.

"Shit, sorry," Tim hurries out. "I thought it wasn't cold anymore."

His fingers stay where they were while he says that, diving even deeper, and it is not about the lube being cold, because it isn't, it is about Ginger lying there on the floor in Manson's home studio, his legs on Tim's shoulder and Tim's fingers in his ass, which has never been a part of his plans, of any plans, not only for today. Though, maybe, he actually should have included something like it in them, because he can live with some of the circumstances, like, for example, with Tim's fingers in his ass, because the truth is that it is pleasant. Very pleasant. And his cock gets just as excited as it did when Tim was pulling his boots off him.

What Tim is doing now, is stretching him enthusiastically, and this enthusiasm is written on his face in such shiny colors that looking at it hurts Ginger's eyes. To avoid having his retina burnt out, Ginger turns away and starts studying the ceiling in Manson's home studio, which is probably just as cold as the floor in it. Or maybe not, because it can't be made from the same material, can it.

The floor Tim pressing him into is made of wood, and the ceiling should be made of plastic, there usually aren't any wooden ceilings, and Manson is, of course, eccentric, but not in this area. In this area he is the very opposite, he follows all possible — and impossible — rules and always wants the perfect sound, and constantly talks about the acoustical characteristics of the room where recording is going on... So if Ginger were lying on the ceiling, his back wouldn't be so cold, though it isn't really cold right now either. Wood has high thermal conductivity and has warmed up, absorbing his body heat during the last few minutes.

While Ginger is getting more and more consumed by the thoughts about the heat transfer, Tim is consuming something else, and Tim's fingers test the diving limits, reaching the deepest possible points, which, sadly, have restrictions placed on them by the metacarpophalangeal joints of his own shameless hands and by Ginger's corresponding anatomy.

Tim has no access to Ginger's meditations on physical properties of various materials, it's only his external reactions that he can observe. Which he does, consuming Ginger's broken moans, the incoherent phonemes he exhales, as if he's trying to say something, but has forgotten his own native language, his far from being pale face and his big strange eyes, and he had absolutely no idea Ginger had a squint. He's especially intently fixed on Ginger's recently discovered neck he's arching, compelling him to share his exaltation with Manson.

Which he also does, expressing it both verbally and through gesticulation. He bares his teeth in a wide smile, licks his lips, winks at Manson and shows him a thumbs-up and sticks his tongue out at him, and then accuses him of gross dereliction of duty.

"You've fucking known him for ages," he says, chiding him. "Like, fuck me, I, unlike you, usually work, and you do nothing else but poke your nose into everybody's business like a naturalist with a looking glass, running your mouth all the time. How come you haven't dragged him into your cabalistic cave before? What, did you need a personal fucking invitation?"

"You're the one who has a habit of relaxing in dusty corners," Manson objects. "I don't have a tendency of paying attention to those who're hiding there. I'm interested in brighter individuals."

Tim pshaws at him.

"Oh, you're just glued to your throne, aren't you? Arrogant fucker. It's so _bright_ in here I might actually go blind, you know."

Ginger, mercifully, doesn't really hear anything. Well, he hears something, surely, but doesn't comprehend a single thing, because overlwhelmingly excited Tim fucks him with his fingers quite emphatically. Or rather he was fucking him just a few seconds ago, and now he isn't anymore, now he is trying to scoop him off the floor and drag him somewhere, mostly failing at that. Ginger doesn't understand what Tim needs from him and shows resistance just in case. It felt fucking amazing to lie there on the floor of Manson's home studio with Tim's fingers in his ass, and getting up is hard, because his legs must be made of cotton and simply won't support his weight.

Tim finally succeeds, depositing Ginger right next to Manson who is sitting at the drum kit backwards, and makes another exclamation Ginger can't decipher.

"All set," he says.

Then, with a habitual motion of his hand, he grabs Manson's cock, which Manson pulled out of his pajama pants long ago, while he was still aiming his looking glass at things that were happening on the floor, and drops Ginger in his lap. Or, to be more precise, not in his lap, but onto his cock, guiding it with his fingers to avoid a slip. His other hand is yet again pushing on Ginger's shoulder, and Manson is holding him by his ribs which he found so impressive earlier.

"Oh dear," Ginger says, notifying the ceiling of Manson's home studio of a new development.

His corresponding anatomy perceives Manson's cock being inside it in minute details.

Tim grins, looking in his huge wide open eyes, and urges him to proceed. Manson's hands slide down his ribs gently, as if searching for the one he needs to pull out to create Eve, and Ginger starts moving.

"Tight," Manson remarks.

Tim's grin grows exponentially, and Tim himself carefully catalogues every red spot that blossoms on Ginger's skin, visually tracing his shoulders, chest and stomach.

"Yeah?" he asks, glancing at Manson over Ginger's blazing shoulder, straightening up.

"Hmmm, yeah. Lovely," Manson finds that rib he was looking for. "Really tight. Not like you."

Tim snorts.

"Well, thank you very much."

"It's not my fault you're such a whore."

Ginger squeaks like a somewhat suffocated cartoon mouse, and fuck knows which one of them, and falters in his movement, losing his tempo and missing the end, no, the begin repeat mark of the bar, and burns with shame, without even being able to fix his mistake, because it has already happened.

Luckily, Tim doesn't notice anything, so Ginger feels just a bit better. There is simply nothing worse than a drummer who fucks up the bass player's lines.

But it seems like the bass player isn't pissed at him, and Manson is also unaware of his failure, because he actually mostly sings.

"I'm not blaming anybody," Tim responds. "I'm very proud to have such a loose slutty hole."

Ginger immediately and against his own will develops a desire to have closer relationships with the token of Tim's glory, simultaneously worrying about well-being of his own ears, because these thoughts of his ignite them instantly, and he feels as if it is the flames of hell that are destroying them.

Manson mutters out some curses, berating Tim and his boastful statements, and grips Ginger's body tighter, pressing his chest to his back, and breaks his rhythms, jerking his hips up and down.

Manson's hand slowly slithers down his trembling stomach, moving in circles, which only makes Ginger shiver even harder, because of the whole palm and because of each and every finger that is exploring his epithelium.

Numerous rings Manson is wearing have absorbed his body heat as well, after all, the thermal conductivity of metals is—

"Wow," Manson exhales right next to his glowing ear. "Tim. Check out his skin. Fucking amazing. Like he's taking daily baths full of adolescent virgins' blood or something."

The width of Tim's grin reaches that of the Amazon river and Tim examines the installation before him — first panting Manson, red spots on his cheeks, then breathless Ginger, swaying in his lap, red spots on his every body part, then the red spots — each one of them — that are coloring his indeed tender, smooth skin, then warmed up rings on Manson's long fingers, spread wide on Ginger's tender, smooth, shivering and trembling stomach — and thinks that it was a really lucky thing that he noticed Ginger's no less fascinating throat.

"He's a drummer, not a fucking miner. But yeah, it is amazing. And by the way, his hole is also fucking fantastic. Like..." Tim moves his lips, facial expression thoughtful. "Like rabbit fillet."

The red spots on Ginger's amazing skin shine like traffic lights, and Tim's prying gaze slides further down, stopping abruptly, bumping into his erect cock.

Manson snorts.

"Oh yeah, and you're not a guitar player, but a rural fucking butcher. How many rabbits did you slaughter with those hands of yours?"

"Fuck off," Tim laughs, without breaking eye contact with Ginger's erect cock. "I bought that rabbit in a goddamn supermarket. And you know that. You were getting in the way while I cooked it for you."

Ginger shifts in Manson's lap, Tim's undiverted attention making those flames of hell spread from his ears to the object Tim is so persistently analyzing, and through that inspires Manson to move more actively as well and to hug him even tighter, accompanying that with some muffled swearing, because Ginger shifts not only in his lap, but also on his cock. Ginger shifts on Manson's cock and thinks he didn't know that Tim could cook and doubts this conclusion just a bit, because who knows why Manson actually needed that rabbit, if he remembers correctly, Manson used to shoot them when he was a teenager, but if the rabbit was indeed just dinner, then was it okay, wasn't it like burnt or something, because Tim is, after all, not a chef and not a butcher, he is a musician.

"Okay, guys," Tim speaks again, yanking Ginger out of his musing over his occupation. "Enough of this small talk. Don't get me wrong, I could watch you till the sun grows cold. But better let me show you something too, alright? My best town's whore skills are getting stale."

Having said that, Tim drops on his knees in front of the installation, spreads Ginger's thighs with his slaughterhouse hands and takes his magnetically attractive cock in his mouth.

That supermarket bought dressed rabbit turned to be quite alright and it was purchased as the main part of the dinner Tim then cooked for Manson, and not a single body part of it got burnt or anything.

Now, speaking about Ginger, he becomes incandescent charcoal within one brief second. His thermal conductivity goes off charts.

Tim's agile, constantly smirking lips envelope his cock and the head touches and then slides past the textured surface of the hard palate, slides further, deeper, and Ginger is left with an even more profound appreciation of such oral skills, and for a second there he starts thinking about Tim's _loose slutty hole_ , about how _it_ must feel from the inside, but quickly stops, forgetting all his deliberations and everything else too, crumbling under pressure, and his head falls helplessly on Manson's silk-clad shoulder.

Mercifully, now Manson is creating the rhythms on his own entirely, and Ginger doesn't have to move. Ginger can just smoulder.

While Ginger dissolves in fire, the two conspirators who ambushed him stay silent, uttering no words, but their contented rumbling is produced in unison.

Tim, to tell the truth, is all but slurping, pushing Ginger's cock deeper down his throat, and Manson bites into Ginger's neck and growls, coming inside his rabbit fillet.

And Ginger, were he not so molten at the moment, would've of course realized that Tim hadn't even put a condom on Manson, while sensing the accelerating tempo of Manson's last thrusts into him, but he is molten, he himself is dangling in five seconds from his orgasm, and then in three, in two, in one.

Then he spills in Tim's sizzling hot, scorching mouth, liquifying and arching in Manson's lap.

Ginger loses his eyesight while coming, and maybe he says goodbye to his retina because of Tim's excited face, his cock between his lips, or maybe because of his own burst, reflected at him from the ceiling of the studio, the ceiling is most likely what he's looking at, while his head is tumbling on Manson's shoulder.

When, after several centuries go by, he recovers, the first thing he sees turns out to be Tim's excited cock testing the durability of the fabric of his tapered sweatpants that are tied around the ankles, and Tim himself is puffing out smoke and grinning, a cigarette between his teeth, and for some reason Manson isn't crucifing him for that.

Ginger is also not lying like a broken doll on Manson anymore, he's occupying Manson's former residing spot, sitting at the drum kit backwards, and Manson is lying on the floor, hands under his head.

  
Ginger has absolutely no idea when all these spatial changes might have occured.

And clearly, they occured during those centuries — brief few minutes in reality — Ginger spent deaf and blind, knocked out of his own body by his own orgasm and by everything else that's happened too, by everything that kept his climax company, and these centuries enjoyed the following historical events: the independent Sweden raised from his knees, the hyperventilating, flushed emperor was removed from throne and replaced with an equally breathless holy fool of a successor, and the tobacco smelling arson kickstarted the revolution.

"Tasty," Tim said, letting Ginger's cock out of his mouth with some reluctance and glancing up at Manson, still on his knees, licking first his lips and then his fingers too.

"Yeah?" Manson inquired, raspy, trying to scale Ginger's lethargic body off himself.

"Oh yeah," Tim said, getting up. "Better than you." Manson pulled on a face, handing his non-responsive burden to Tim and leaving his seat at the drum kit. "You were right, there are certainly some benefits to leading a healthy life style."

"Oh, don't even get me started on your nicotine-protein cocktail then," Manson replied, reaching the wall and sliding down it onto the floor. "I'm sure, compared to yours, his junk would be a fucking ambrosia to me. Like you'd ever indulge me with drinking smoothies and doing push ups on the yoga mat."

"So what," Tim said, getting the riot going and putting the broken doll onto the seat at the drum kit. "If I am so hopeless. Can I smoke right here now instead of going fuck knows where while you two are enjoying your time off?"

"Sure. Just don't forget it's not only yourself you're poisoning with your fetid fog," Manson muttered, the last symbol of an era long gone, and stretched on the floor.

"Jesus fuck," Tim rolled his eyes, lighting up a cigarette. "Ginger also smokes, need I remind you."

"Oh yeah. He smokes. And you feed off those tobacco sticks of yours. Anaerobic fucking bacterium."

While Tim is undergoing a change of species, the past becomes the present, and Ginger regains not only his ability to see — to see Tim's erect cock — but also his speech capability.

"I actually..." he says slowly. "I actually smoke a lot too."

"Oh, see," Tim says, still bickering with Manson. "I am not alone in this shoot-out anymore. Together we will kick your butt. So stop your idiotic attacks."

"Whatever," Manson says, waving a hand at him and then putting it under his head.

"Ginj, do you want one?" Tim asks, pulls the package out of his pocket again and takes several steps towards Ginger, so that his erect cock fills most of Ginger's recently retrieved field of vision.

"But you're..." Ginger says, glancing up. "You're still hard."

"Ah," Tim puffs out and glances down, admiring his boner. "Yeah. You bet."

"But don't you..." Ginger starts again. "Don't you want to... you know? Do it too?"

He stops abruptly and blushes, his own words reaching his ears, but decides against trying fixing anything, because that is way too dangerous, who knows what else he might burp out, he's still in shock and he'll be recovering from it till next Christmas.

Anyhow, it is already too late to attempt repairs.

"Ah," Tim puffs out again and smiles at him. "Well, if you insist."

Then he puts the package back into his pocket and takes his cock out instead, pulling his pants down a bit, his hand landing on Ginger's nape.

The head pokes into Ginger's lips.

He can't even say _fuck._

He can't say Tim's name either, even though it is exactly what he has on his tongue, because the second he opens his mouth Tim pushes inside, effortlessly, but carefully, and Tim's name rolls off Ginger's tongue, getting replaced by Tim's cock, and this is not what he expected while doing push ups on the yoga mat in the morning, it's not even what he meant by his babbling, it's just Tim's cock, and Tim slid it in his mouth as if it was a cigarette he offered him before, and it tastes nothing like the cigarette, Tim's cock has a completely different taste, it's warm, a bit salty and very pleasant.

Tim smiles at Ginger, pushing inside, he bites his lower lip and exhales loudly, and it again feels too painful to look at his face, Tim combs Ginger's hair with his fingers, scraping his nape, and it once more makes the electrical currents run through his body, and Ginger tilts forward, taking Tim's cock deeper in his mouth, hoping that Tim would like it at least half as much as Ginger did, when their spatial disposition was the very opposite.

Ginger knows he's not the town's best whore and not even it's worst one, he's nothing like it, he's just a drummer, and he sincerely doubts his abilities to turn anybody into incandescent charcoal with his mouth, much less do it to Tim.

He's mistaken.

Well, needless to say, Tim does think that Ginger requires practice, rocking his hips in a flawless, leisured rhythm, but the way he thinks that isn't at all similar to what Ginger imagines.

Tim puts his hand on Ginger's nape, sliding his cock over Ginger's pliant, gentle, taut tongue again and again, and thinks that Ginger requires practice, so, so much daily practice, morning, evening and afternoon practice, with him, Tim Skold, as a highly contented exercise equipment.

However, then Tim puts his hand on Ginger's throat, running his palm over it, and growls at the influx of sensations, and Ginger arches his neck, throwing his head backwards, giving Tim better access, even though that isn't very comfortable, because Tim's cock sinks way too deep down his throat — as deep as both their corresponding anatomies allow. Ginger does it because Tim informed him that he's fond of his throat himself, and now Ginger is close to being sure that he indeed is and his throat is actually valued, and when he arches his neck, giving Tim better access, Tim stops having any thoughts, any thoughts at all.

His mind fills with flashing images of holes, happiness and butchering the supermarket bought dressed rabbits with bare hands.

"Fucking bunnies," Tim mutters under his breath, gripping Ginger's arched neck tight and flooding his mouth with come.

"Fucking Aryan fans of organically farmed meat," Manson mutters too, demonstrating quite an atypical speed and getting up in a rush, leaving the studio hastily, propelled by the wave of creativity.

Tim's excited coming face has filled him up with inspiration to the very brim.

Tim himself fills up Ginger's mouth, and Ginger keeps everything there is in there, both Tim's cock that is gradually going slack — until Tim pulls it out on his own, sliding it over Ginger's tongue and lips one last time — and Tim's come, and he thinks he must look like a mouse that's crammed a whole bag of nuts in its cheeks and that Manson might have had something on him where he could spit, a handkerchief or something of that sort, but Manson isn't around anymore, and Tim definitely doesn't have anything like that in his pockets, but he might know where Manson puts such things, so Ginger looks around the studio and then lifts his head, glancing up at Tim.

Tim surveys him from above, a bit perplexed, and smiles absentmindedly.

"What's up with you?" he asks and touches his face, pushing the hair off it.

"Mhm," Ginger squeezes out carefully and moves his eyes, trying to communicate that he needs to spit somewhere, because his mouth's full of come, because Tim's just spilled in it, and before that Manson fucked him in the ass, so it is not just his mouth that is full of come, and he'd driven here without planning anything like that, he'd driven here to play the drums, and now he's sitting here and staring up at Tim, and Tim is caressing his face and smiling.

"Just swallow it," Tim snorts. "I do."

Ginger swallows Tim's come, staring at him with his huge wide open eyes, and then bites his lips, and Tim makes a note of his every motion.

"Here," Ginger whispers, feeling the blood rush to his skin again.

Tim shakes his head and lets out a laugh.

"Fuck, you..." he says and sits on his heels and licks into Ginger's mouth smeared in come, holding his head with both his hands.

On the fifth minute of the kiss Ginger realizes that Tim is licking into his mouth without closing his eyes and not on accident.

***

The elaborate plot brought to life by the two conspirators ends with Ginger crawling there on the wooden floor with high thermal conductivity, trying to find his boxers with cartoon characters on them to put them on as soon as possible and hide the mice under his pants, while Tim shouts something at Manson from the corridor, something about his rude absence, and Manson tells them that it's time for the visitors to go home, because he's actually trying to do some writing here, when they eventually manage to get out of the studio and Tim stops kissing Ginger on the couch too and starts instead talking about some food they simply must order right now, because he's starving, and once again reminds Manson that he's not alone in the room and has guests, and calls him names without much exasperation to it, agreeing to vacate the premises and go home, and then it's Ginger who reminds him about those four bottles of beer he had and stutters, offering Tim to give him a lift, which is exactly what he does next, because Tim easily signs up for that as well.

"You eat taco, right?" Tim asks, standing at the front door of his own house, his hands tucked in the back pockets of his tapered sweatpants with ties around the ankles, a cigarette between his teeth.

"Yeah," Ginger nods.

"Come on then," Tim says and smiles at him and takes his hand, dragging him inside.

On the third day of his stay in Tim's bed Ginger comes to the conclusion this is also not just a twist of fate.

___________________________________________________________________________________


End file.
